


I'm Yellin' Timber

by CaptainAmelia22



Series: Tumblr Drabble [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Out of Character, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-20 07:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1501838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/CaptainAmelia22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Natasha Romanoff sees Barnes and Rogers, she thinks they may be brothers.  </p><p>And really, who can blame her?  </p><p>They look like they came from the same test-tube.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ones with the Tattoos and Blonde Hair

The first time Natasha Romanoff sees Barnes and Rogers, she thinks they may be brothers.  

And really, who can blame her?  They look like they came from the same test-tube.  Both boys are tall-like, hella tall.  Greek gods would be jealous of the musculature on their bodies.  (God knows she is)  If not for their looks, they’d be able to pull off the twins thing and go on about their day with nary a complaint otherwise.  

One has perfect blonde hair, piercing blue eyes and lips always ready for a smile; he’s a living Ken doll, all the way down to his chiseled abs and perfectly shaped feet.  Seriously, it’s creepy how beautiful his feet are.  

As for the other guy…Well, Barnes always looks like he fell out of a meth lab on his way to a kegger and it’s something none of them will ever be able to change-even if every now and then, Sharon drunkenly threatens to have Sam sit on him so she can give him a haircut.  

The horrified, yet amused, look on Barnes’ face when this happens-usually after a couple bottles of vodka that never faze him, Rogers or herself, but always floor the others-is one of her favorite things about him.  

Anyway, Rogers and Barnes don’t look anything like each other but she still thinks they may be brothers the day they sidle into their level three-hundred literature class; both guys move in sync, every gesture as economical as the other’s and as they collapse in chairs just a row below hers in the massive lecture hall, she notices they even  _blink_  together.

It’s eerie.

But she can’t look away from them-even though she’s been insanely excited about this stupid lit class ( _The Hero and the Villain:  How Comic Books Lend Us a Look at Reality Through Speech Bubbles_ -how awesome did that sound?!) and as the professor introduces himself and begins handing out the class’s syllabus, she finds her eyes drifting from blondie’s profile to the meth head’s.  

It’s then, as the former glances out of the corner of his eye in her direction and the other drapes his left arm over his companion’s shoulder, that she realizes. 

Not brothers.

 _Oh,_  she thinks as she catches sight of starkly executed ink on the dark haired guy’s arm and the blonde presses his shoulder into his chest.   _Well then…_

The professor is droning-something about how _Watchmen_ is the quintessential superhero comic book (in that it isn’t about superheroes-but about what real people would become, should they don the mask and cape in hopes of rescuing humanity,  _eurgh)_ _-_ and she’s suddenly gazing into the dark eyes of the meth head.  

"Hey," he says simply, his lips curling in a knowing smile as her green eyes widen in horror and her pale cheeks begin to redden.  "How stupid is this class, huh?"

She recovers at the dark humor she catches in his voice, at the way his lips (sensitive lips, a tweedy lit professor would say with a knowing nod) curl in a sneer, at the way his fingers (tattooed as well _-is his entire body inked?  uhhh…_ ) move in tiny circles on the blonde’s shoulders, at the way his hair barely stays in the sloppy ponytail he’s pulled it into.

At his entire  _everything._

"Maybe you’re not the hero we deserve then," she mutters back, her own lips curling in a tiny sneer of her own and she tosses her hair with a sniff before forcing her attention back to the prof.  As she yanks her eyes from the knowing gaze of the dark haired boy sitting in front of her, his long body sprawled in his chair, legs in their dark wash skinny jeans and worn combat boots spread in invitation, she meets the gaze of his partner’s just briefly.

Bright blue, as knowing as the other’s, but soft.  Gentle.  Kind.

The complete opposite of the grunge punk trailing his fingers through his hair. 

He winks at her, eyelashes that are nearly twice the length of hers sweeping down over the hollow of his cheekbone, and something stirs in her chest at the sight of his lips curling in a gentle smile.

A smile meant for her.  

It’s the first time she experiences firsthand how special Steve Rogers can make a person feel.  

It’s not the last.  

Cheeks blazing with color, she drags her gaze away from  _him_  and stares pointedly at the professor standing below them on the lecture hall’s stage, a copy of  _Watchmen_  in his hands.  

She tries to focus on his words, on the way he bounces up and down on the balls of his feet as he talks about how important this class is but she can’t.

She can’t because she can see tattooed fingers trailing through blonde hair and she can see two sets of long legs spreading so feet (combat boots and royal blue Converse-how stereotypical) can tangle together and suddenly.

Suddenly…it’s all she wants.  

Those hands burning heated trails across her skin, those gently curved lips pressing soft kisses against her throat, those feet tangling with hers in the twisted sheets of a too-small bed.

Her cheeks blaze with the realization, with the thought of those bodies pressed to hers, and her chest tightens in panic at the sudden hope that no one develops a superpower enabling them to read her thoughts.

The irony, if said impossible event actually occurs, is not lost on her… 

The moment the professor releases the class, she grabs her messenger bag and bolts from the room, nearly falling on her face as she trips on the steps leading up to the double doors at the back of the hall, and her face is so hot it feels like she’s going to explode.

It’s not until she’s standing outside, hidden behind one of the massive granite pillars facing the biggest classroom building on campus, that she finally gets a chance to breathe.

"Oh God," she groans as she bends over, hands resting on her knees and hair spilling over her shoulder to curtain her face.  "What  _was_  that?!”  

All she can see, as she focuses on keeping air moving through her frozen lungs, are those damned fingers and those two sets of eyes gazing at her with some some sort of freaky knowledge in their depths, and she lets out a weak laugh.

"That was  _weird.”_

"Says the girl who was staring blatantly at us for most of Monroe’s lecture," says a voice directly behind her.

Her eyes close at the familiar tone and she stifles a groan as she straightens slowly and turns to face her shame.

The two of them-grunge and Ken-stand directly behind her and as she meets their gazes calmly, the blonde smiles gently once more at her.

Well,  _down_  at her. 

Tall, remember?

"Steve Rogers," the blonde says as he thrusts his hand out in her direction, blue eyes sparkling happily when she takes it after a brief moment of hesitation.  "Pleasure meeting you, ma’am."

She coughs out a laugh at that as he squeezes her hand gently and pumps it once.  ”’ _Ma’am_ ’?!” she sputters when he releases it and blushes.  ”What?  Are we on the set of  _Leave it to Beaver_  or something?” 

The dark haired guy claps his hand on Rogers’ shoulder with another of what she suspects is a patented smirk, and says with a chuckle, “Steve’s old-fashioned.  It’s part of his charm or something-or so his ex always told me.”  His dark eyes lock on hers but before she can come back with a witty comment about chivalry not being dead, just squashed under tiny testicles, his lips curl in a genuine smile and he holds his hand out towards her.

The sleeve of his black leather jacket rides up and every witty remark flies out of her head at the sight of more black tattoos covering fair skin; despite herself she finds her hand rising to press palm-to-palm to his and as his inked fingers close gently around hers and  _squeeze,_  something begins to stir in her belly.  

She swallows heavily as her gaze drifts from still-squeezing hand to well-chiseled body barely hidden by soft grey v-neck tee to the trailing lines of ink just peeking under his collar and her mouth goes dry as his thumb presses into her pulse.

"James Barnes.  Everyone calls me Bucky," he says, his voice husky and his hooded gaze locked on hers.  "And you are?" 

"Natasha," she chokes out through numb lips and dry-mouth.  "Natasha Romanova."  

Those lips curl back into his sneer and as he releases her fingers ( _Oh God, no…_ ) he cocks his head and she shudders at the sight of dark brown hair falling into his eyes.  ”Russian, then?  _Ty krasivaya, milaya.”_

The Russian, spilling from his lips in such an unexpected environment, is the tipping point.

She doesn’t faint exactly.

Not really.

She  _doesn’t._

But she  _does_  wake up an hour later on their battered couch, a cool cloth draped over her forehead and her feet resting in the lap of a living Ken doll.  

"Sorry," Steve Rogers says as she comes-to with a groan.  "Buck comes off a little strong sometimes."  

All she can do is stare.

It’s the first time she’s struck dumb by the sight of Steve Rogers in a tight white t-shirt.  

It’s definitely not the last.

 _White t-shirts should not be that perfect_ , she thinks as her vision begins to spin once more and she slides the cloth a bit further over her face.

_Fuck._


	2. Her Skin Smells Like Rain and Sex

The first time she finds Barnes and Rogers naked, in bed together, is the day she gets a C on her Lit-350 paper.  

It's the first C she's ever gotten in her three years of college and it's pretty much the worst thing that's ever happened to her.

Barnes doesn't stop laughing when she confesses this several hours later; only Rogers seems to understand just what it is that's made her mad.  

Of course, he's as much a perfectionist as she is.  

While Barnes...

Well.

"This is utter fucking shit!" she bellows the moment she kicks 4B's front door open (she's had the key for over a month now-Rogers took pity on her the moment he heard she was still living in the dorm due to a stringent scholarship requirement and met her roommate, a stiff backed ROTC student named Maria) and her bag goes flying across their tiny apartment to land perfectly in the middle of the battered couch Rogers brought her to on the day they met.  "Fucking shit!  Do you hear me, Rogers?!"

There's no answer so she slams the door to emphasize her frustration.  

She has every right to be frustrated.

She slaved on that paper.

Slaved for nearly four hours in the creepy stacks of the music library.  

Granted, she wrote it the night before it was due.  With two venti barely sweetened Americanos in her system and maybe a Red Bull or two.

But seriously-who assigns a ten paged paper the day before Fall Break is supposed to start?!

Who.

(Tweedy lit professors, is who.  Tweedy lit professors with massive man-crushes on Alan Moore and a boner for disjointed and poorly drawn panels featuring dubious heroes in disgusting costumes.  Bastard.)  

She stands in the living room/kitchen/Rogers' studio for a long moment, chest heaving and hair wildly bursting from it's bun, and grinds her teeth; she hasn't even noticed that the tiny one-bedroom apartment's occupant hasn't answered her, hasn't appeared with a fresh brewed cup of coffee in his hands, and words of comfort or encouragement on his lips.  

She hasn't noticed how eerily quiet the apartment is.

Or that the bedroom door is closed.  

"Just because I wrote about how the Watchmen is a poor example of just what heroes would be like in this world, doesn't mean I'm wrong!  Doesn't mean I'm stupid," she snarls as she yanks the black leather jacket she stole from Barnes off and unzips her grey striped hoodie.  "Jesus, you'd think I'd written a thesis about how tiny his cock is.  Which I'm sure is tinier than a pencil!"  Jacket and hoodie join her backpack on the couch and she kicks off her boots before stalking angrily towards the bedroom.  

The closed off bedroom.

"What grade did you get on your paper, Rogers?" she asks as she pushes the door open and prepares to march in, to confront the perfectionist god most likely sleeping within, before his evening art-lab begins.  

It's then that she realizes the apartment is quiet for a reason.  That Rogers didn't appear with coffee and words of idiotic comfort because he was, well...caught up in something else.

"Jesus Natalia," Barnes pants from his position beneath Rogers, ass in the air and forehead pressed against his tattooed forearms.  His brown hair tumbles over his eyes in sweaty strings and his muscular body trembles as Rogers works him with fierce pumps of his hips and a tight fist to his swollen dick.  "Didn’t you see the tie on the door?"

His dark eyes-indeterminate in color, especially in the shadows of the darkened bedroom-are glazed but his lips curl in his patented sneer as she stares at him, at the tattoos writhing on every inch of his body, at the muscles clenching in Rogers' ass and thighs as he picks up his tempo.

Barnes's skin ripples as she watches, making the church steeples on his back writhe and the star on his shoulder bulge and he bites out a curse as Rogers' fingers trail over the Cyrillic etched along his rib-cage.  "Fuck, Steve," he whines, his eyes fluttering closed as he turns his face into the sheets and spreads his legs even further; Natasha shivers at that, at the sight of Rogers' teeth baring grimly as his cock slips even deeper within Barnes' ass.  

His hand trails away from Barnes' swollen balls, to his hips, and his fingers dig deep into the fine bones for better leverage.  

"Hold on, hold on," he pants, his voice rasping in the shadows and it's possibly the strangest thing she's ever witnessed.  

Steve Rogers, undone.

Undone and in ecstasy.  

The sound of the blonde guy's belly striking Barnes' reddened ass is the only sound in the room for a long moment and her cheeks flare in color the moment Barnes lets out a choked groan and his eyes flutter closed.

Her heart begins to race at the sight of Rogers' fingers digging even deeper into his partner's tattooed body, bruising the fair skin beneath the stark black lines covering him; her mouth goes dry at the way the dark haired man rocks back with each thrust, to meet his hips.  The eagerness she sees in his dazed expression causes something similar to stir within herself and she doesn't notice her fingers pressing into the stiff seam of her jeans in response to the primal scene taking place before her.    

Rogers throws his head back as he braces his feet against the scarred hardwood floor of his room and Barnes snarls wordlessly as the blonde man yanks him forcefully into his cock with a hard thrust.  

It's astounding, seeing perfect, beautiful, Steve Rogers like this; to see his hair tousled and sweat dripping down his chiseled body.  She knows, if he wasn't so far gone, so close to what looks like the orgasm of the century, that the moment she had arrived in the doorway he'd have put an end to this act.  

But as it is, he's teetering on the edge and as his feet brace and his hands tighten around Barnes' dangerously elegant body, she teeters with him, eyes wide and body tingling with her own arousal.   

Natasha stares as Rogers climaxes, the muscles in his thighs, ass and stomach tensing as he ejaculates and a tiny gasp leaves her lips at the sight of the muscles in his throat cording as he bites back a fierce shout everyone in the entire complex would most likely hear.

Barnes is not so restrained:  as Rogers' orgasm rocks through their joined bodies, hips thrusting with each hot burst of his seed, he grinds himself into the tangled sheets of his partner's bed and begins to speak. 

It takes her a stunned moment to realize he's speaking in Russian.  

To realize he's begging.

Begging for Steve to save him.

For Steve to claim him.

For Steve to fuck him, fuck him hard.  

 _I love you, I love you_ , he snarls in Russian, his eyes squeezed closed and his hand stretched behind him to grip Rogers' wrist.   _Please don't leave, don't-don't-don't._

This is not the James "Bucky" Barnes she knows.

This is not the cool as can be, nonchalant asshole with a propensity for too much alcohol and too many cigarettes.  

This is not the man who tugs her hair every time she spends the night on the couch and calls her Natalia just to piss her off, as he stalks by her on the way to sit beside Steve in the class they share.  

This is...

This is something...stunning.

The only thing keeping her upright  as she stares at Barnes grinding himself into Rogers' still thrusting body is the doorframe and as her fingers rub absently against the seam of her jeans and her body thrums with her own dark need, she wonders what it would be like to want someone so badly.

To need to be claimed in such a way.

To be loved like this.  

Rogers pants as he finishes, entire god-like body trembling as he thrusts gently, slowly against Barnes' ass, and as she watches (Damn, damn, damn) his blue eyes open for the first time since her clueless arrival and it's then that she realizes.

Steve Rogers-quiet, gentle, studious Steve Rogers-gazes at her the same way he stared at Barnes' body beneath his.  

With desire and possession.  

With the need to dominate.

To claim.

"Well, shit," she whispers as she backs from the room, her eyes locked on the sight of the two men parting to tumble together on the dark sheets of the bed as Rogers reaches for Barnes' still-hard cock.  "Shit, shit, shit."  

The front door slamming closed behind her echoes in her ears but as she bolts (barefoot and jacketless and backpackless) from the apartment all she can see is the ice-blue heat of Rogers eyes bearing down on her knowingly.  All she can hear is Barnes sobbing in broken Russian about how much he wants Steve's gorgeous cock in his ass.

All she sees, as she runs through the rainy campus of George Washington University, are tattoos, corded muscles, fingers tangling in sheets-in skin-in hair, and suddenly that C she got on her paper is the least of her concerns.

Suddenly all she can think about is what it would feel like to be touched like that.

To have those heated eyes on her skin as tattooed arms wrap around her hips.

To have them claiming her.

Loving her.

"Oh shit."

She runs, runs all the way back to her tiny dorm room and her fierce roommate she barely talks to.

She runs but for some reason...

She wants to stop.  

She wants to stop and turn back to those boys she's come to love and adore in the past couple of months.

She, Natasha Romanoff, wants to fuck two beautiful boys.

To fuck them and be fucked by them.

"Fuck!" she screams in the middle of campus, her head thrown back to the rain falling all around her and her bare toes curled into the mud of the Arboretum.  

No one hears her.

No one cares.

And her body still thrums with desire.

"Fuck," she whispers as she slips into her dorm building unnoticed and heads for the elevators. 

_Fuck._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this story took off like a shot yesterday...Which surprised me.
> 
> I've changed the rating because it got a little dirtier than I expected. I've never really written explicit slash before, so be kind. If there's anything that seems even a little dubcon just let me know. 
> 
> As ever, all my love and thanks for the kudos!
> 
> -M


	3. I'm Goin' Down

The first time they try it, it’s her idea.  

Which is only fair, considering all of the shit they’ve put her through.  

It’s the best revenge, in the end.

“Come on,” she says, her green eyes glinting dangerously over the fan of white Cards Against Humanity she holds.  Rogers is staring at her from over his own fan and Barnes is smirking into his beer bottle, shirtless and tattooed body sprawled beside hers, his bare toes pressed against his partner’s thigh.  

They’ve been silent since Rogers read the black card ( _What ended my last relationship?_ ) and the white cards they had played ( _Brainwashed Soviet assassins_ and  _Too many threesomes_ -Oops).  The look on his face as he read first Barnes’ and then hers was priceless-is  _still_  priceless-and as he shifts before her and fiddles with the black card and his beer bottle and the collar of his white wife beater and his hair  _and and and_  she realizes-

That was exactly the best card to play.  

This has been boiling between them for days-weeks-since that day. Since that day she first saw what it was like to be possessed by Steve Rogers.

To witness that cold heat of his gaze on her shivering skin.

To hear Barnes’ voice rasping platitudes in Russian as Rogers touched him.  

This- _them_ -has been teetering on the edge of a cliff for weeks and for the first time in days, she knows just what to do.

She has to get them in bed with her.

She has to feel their skin on hers.

And just let the consequences be fucking damned.  

“Are you scared of me?” she asks with a chuckle as she pointedly stares from one man to the next, fanning herself idly with her cards, that dangerous glint still in her eyes.   She’s never felt so daring.  Never felt so fucking alive.

It’s like breathing fresh air after being in a cave for a few hours.

It’s like eating a Havarti and chicken lunch meat sandwich on an everything bagel at midnight after a long concert in the dead of summer.

It’s like…

Like the greatest orgasm of the last century.  

_Which I'm going to have before the night is over, dammit._

Barnes’ hooded gaze is locked on Rogers’ but she can tell exactly what each man is thinking.  She’s actually kind of amazed neither of them is bursting out of his pants, in all honesty.

Smirking, she fakes a yawn as she waits in the tense silence and stretches slowly in her chair, slender arms arching over her head as her hair spills over the back of the chair and her gray striped hoodie falls open.  

As one, their eyes drift from each other's to her chest and back to the other's.  Every movement they make is in sync, like that first day when they met in class, and she shivers at the thought.  

Twins have got nothing on these two, she thinks idly as she reclines in a similar manner to Barnes' easy sprawl and shrugs free of the hoodie, revealing the filmy red camisole underneath.  

His nostrils flare at the sight of her breasts nearly spilling out of the built in bra of the thin-strapped shirt and as she tosses her hair just a bit to better show off her clavicles, she catches his fingers falling to press against the bulge at the front of his jeans.

She smirks knowingly and winks as the cards fall from their fingers to rest unnoticed upon the tile floor but doesn't move or mention those cupping fingers pressing into his faded jeans.

He bares his teeth in her direction and growls something in unintelligible Russian, making her grin even more.   

As they tease each other, Rogers' simply watches Barnes' reaction to her flushing body, his eyes heated and his lips curled in a crooked grin she only sees when he's amused by his partner.  It's quiet as he takes a slow pull on his nearly empty beer bottle, his gaze expressionless, but as she watches he nods just slightly in Barnes' direction. 

Just slightly.

Natasha realizes, as his eyes skate over her and back to the dark haired man sitting at her side, that that nod is like that one moment in  _Clash of the Titans_  when Liam Neeson roars  _RELEASE THE KRAKEN_.

It's Rogers' releasing his pet and suddenly everything narrows for her.  Narrows down to these two and what they are going to do to her.  

_Damn._

She jumps the moment Barnes leans into her, one wide palm pressed to her thigh and the other rising to tuck her hair behind her ear.  

"Are you challenging us, little Natalia?" he purrs, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of her ear. She shudders involuntarily at the sensation his darting tongue causes as it slips quickly into the soft hollow to taste her and he chuckles.  "Because you know how that will work out, little one," he growls with a sharp nip of his teeth to her lobe.

The hand at her thighs begins to move in slow circles over her jeans, moving closer and closer to her crotch and her breath picks up at the sensations his teeth and fingers causes on her already sensitive skin.  

"Barnes," she groans when he grips the back of her skull, forcing her head gently to the side so his lips and teeth can rest at the pulse point of her throat; she gasps the moment his teeth begin to nibble and his tongue begins to stroke.  " _James_ , please." 

She doesn't notice his hand tugging at the button of her jeans.  

She doesn't notice his fingers yanking the zipper open.

She doesn't notice...

He chuckles.  "Did I find Natalia's ticklish spot?" he murmurs, his voice vibrating through the corded muscles of her throat.  He sucks once more at her pulse point, making her gasp and writhe as a deep-seated wave of pleasure rolls up her body from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head.  Spots fill her vision and she moans piteously when his mouth finally leaves her pulse to travel once more over her jawline.

It's then that his fingers press against her mons through the soft cotton of her panties. 

She surges forward into his hand, into his mouth, with a faint shriek and he grins when her eyes rise to meet his.  

Every bone in her body goes limp as he presses against the faint film of her panties, fingers teasing-stroking- _pushing_ , and her head falls back in ecstasy at the sensations those awful tattooed fingers awaken in her.  

He strokes her breasts through the cups of her camisole, teasing her nipples into hard little buds, and that alone is enough to make her come undone.  Somehow, somehow he finds ways to bring her to the edge before abandoning her and as one hand strokes and the other cups, she begins to understand what true ecstasy feels like.

Unable to stop herself, her ass slides a bit in the chair and as he begins to stroke his thumb along the outer edges of her mons again, she moans. 

His dark eyes glint triumphantly the moment he notices hers fluttering with each pulse of pleasure his skilled fingers enact and he grins when her hips thrust into his touch, trying to increase said contact on her skin.

Without a word he simply scoops her up and eases her into his lap, fingers still stroking suddenly damp panties through the zipper of her jeans and cunning lips still tasting her flushed skin.  

It's then that she notices the third member of their little circle; as Barnes settles her comfortably in his lap, her back pressed against his tattooed chest so she's facing out into the living room-facing the card table-her eyes rise to meet Rogers'.

He sits ramrod straight in his chair, every chiseled muscle at attention, and his eyes never leave hers. 

A sharp cry leaves her lips the moment she recognizes the icy heat in his gaze and as she grinds her hips into Barnes'-into the heated hardness hidden behind the zipper of his jeans-arches invitingly in Rogers' direction.

"Steve."  

She almost doesn't recognize Barnes' voice; the rough rasp of it vibrates through her chest and as his fingers tease and stroke her through soaked cotton and filmy spandex, his own hips begin to undulate against hers as well.

As one they're coming undone and the commander of their little outfit simply watches, his hands folded before him and his face a blank mask.

Her hand shakes as she arches it back to cup Barnes' head and she bites back a sob when he lowers his lips to the juncture of her shoulder and neck.  His heated breath washes over her skin, washes over the already flushed heat of her body and as she tugs the rubber band holding his tangled hair in place, free, he groans.

"Please."  

The sound of Rogers' chair sliding across the tile floor of the kitchen/dining room is the only sound in the tense apartment.  She barely notices him pacing towards them, his motions as controlled as they were that day she caught them fucking in his bedroom.

Steve Rogers moves with an economy she will never master.

He moves like a predator stalking it's prey.

And it awakens something just as primal in her own body.

Barnes' too.

His fingers finally slide under the hem of her panties as Rogers' appears before them, his own cock pressing forcefully against the zipper of his jeans, and as she surges forward into his touch-back arched, breasts thrust up towards his lips and head tucked under his jaw-her eyes lock on Rogers'.  

"Please," she whispers as his hand rises and the back of his knuckles stroke her jaw.  " _Please."_

She doesn't care that she's begging.

She doesn't care that she's going to come with tattooed fingers on her clit.

She doesn't care that one man is possessing her physically while the other is possessing her mentally.

 _I don't care, just do it Steve.  Just do me.  Do him.  Do_ us.   _Come on-come on-come on._

His knuckles fall from her face and grip Barnes' wrist gently.  

Both still as he brings Barnes' fingers to his lips and they cry out softly the moment his lips close around the tattooed digits, tasting her on his skin.

His eyes close in his own form of ecstasy and he snarls as he drops Barnes' hand and stalks towards the bedroom, "Bed.  Strip.   _Now."_

It's almost comical how quickly they scramble towards the room, their various states of undress increasing drastically the moment they hit the threshold; Barnes' helps her tug her camisole off and she grins up at him, every nerve in her body singing triumphantly at the sight of the dark heat in his gaze. 

"Are you ready for this?" he murmurs as she reaches up to playfully muss his hair.  His boxer briefs bulge with the heat of his erection but he doesn't remove them.  

Taking a cue from him, she keeps her panties on.  

"Absolutely," she says confidence in every line of her body.

She'd been dreaming of this for days.

Of them.

Of this bed.  

Rogers is standing by the bed, his eyes locked on them-watching them strip as if it's a dance only for him.  

Which in some ways, it is.

He's the captain of this ship and he'll go down with it.

She grins at the thought and tosses her hair.

"Kneel," he says, his voice quieter now-now that he's once more in control.  His blue eyes never leave hers and as Barnes pushes her gently forward, she wonders if his lips still have her taste on them.  

She wonders if she kissed him, if he'd let her taste her own musk.

It's such a fucking turn-on, the thought of kissing this titan's lips after he's sucked her off of yet another god's fingers, she almost comes right there.

Her knees slam into the hardwood floors of his bedroom and as he smiles gently down at her and Barnes' takes his position directly behind her, she grins.

"Time to play, commander?" she asks, her voice ragged with the tiny aftershocks of pleasure still rocking through her from Barnes' previous administrations. 

Rogers simply smiles.

Her fingers tremble as they rise to tug at the button and zipper of his pants.  

 _This is it Nat,_  she thinks as the heat of Barnes' body begins to roll over her and Rogers' erection appears before her lips.   _Time to show them what you can do._

He reaches for Barnes as she eases his cock free of his boxer briefs and brings her lips to it's crown.  Sandwiched between them-Barnes' erection pressing to the back of her skull and his fingers tangling in her hair as Rogers begins to kiss him-her entire body just dissolves into a state of constant heat and arousal.

She barely notices.

Her attention is focused solely on Rogers' cock.

 _Fuck,_  she thinks as she slips her lips around its width and strokes her tongue over the slit.  The heady salty taste of him overwhelms her as she takes him deeper into her throat, Barnes' fingers tangling in her hair.  Her muscles work him and her tongue strokes him and a deep groan vibrates through his chest at the sensations she causes.  

Every nerve in her body sings as her focus narrows-narrows to the feel of fingers in her hair and the taste of her friend's salt on her tongue-and as she cups his balls and works him deeper still, she trembles.  

It's almost sickening how much she wants this.

Wants them.

His hips thrust slowly as the muscles in his ass flex and still she works him deeper, deeper into her throat.  He tastes like heaven (like justice-wouldn't Barnes laugh at that) and her fingers massage his balls gently until the retract.  He groans, his throat cording as his thrusts become tighter and her jaw works around his width.  She doesn't let him go though, she drags him deep and reaches up to grip Barnes' wrist.  

Captures them both.

Keeps them in her grasp.  

Rogers' comes with a bitten back shout and she takes all he has to give-hot seed spilling over her tongue and down her throat and down her jaw as hot spurt after hot spurt bursts from him.  

She draws him out and this-this is perfection.  

"Jesus," Rogers gasps, hips thrusting gently against her cheeks, wearing them raw.  "Jesus Natasha, stop."

His fingers rest on her head, over Barnes', and as her eyes flutter open and the last of his semen washes over her tongue, he leans forward to rest his forehead on Barnes' chest.  

"Jesus." 

Barnes strokes her hair under Rogers' fingers and rests his cheek against the other man's head.  "Well, that was entertaining," he drawls, an easy grin on his lips.  His dark eyes look down at them, amusement in their depths and something else as well.  Natasha shudders, her tongue on her lips, Rogers' taste still in her mouth and as he takes a shuddering deep breath she grins back up at the dark haired man.

"Round two?"

Barnes chuckles and offers her a hand, hauling her upright the moment her palm presses to his.  

"I'm game," he mutters with a soft kiss to her ear and a pat to her ass.  

He takes control this time, his movements predatory as he moves around the bed, and she and Rogers instinctively take up their positions, him at the head of the bed, her sitting between his legs.  Their eyes never leave Barnes, never leave the rippling tattoos on his body or the way his too-long dark brown hair tumbles into his eyes as he paces slowly along the end of the bed.

"Face Steve," he says as he comes up beside her, his fingers gently stroking her still shivering skin.  She jumps slightly as he snaps the elastic waistband of her panties, but she follows his directions.

Facing Rogers, her back to the other man in the room, awakens something primal in her she's never felt before now.  Something dark and as Rogers cups her chin and Barnes positions her so her ass is in the air and her arms straddle the blonde's hips, she swallows thickly.

Light blue eyes meet hers reassuringly as he reclines against the pillows, legs spread and hips canted in invitation.  

Every single thing about this set-up is inviting. 

And she grins.  

Before she can crack a joke or make a snide comment, the mattress dips behind her and lips trail upwards from her hips to her neck, pressing into each knob of her spine.  

"So beautiful," Barnes murmurs between caresses, his fingers resting at her hips.  She glances at him over her shoulder with a grin and wiggles her ass in invitation.  He simply rolls his eyes and nips her gently, making her gasp and rock back into his lips.

"Hold still," he mutters as he pulls her panties down over ass and to her knees.  " _Neposlushnyy."_

She grins at the nickname and turns her eyes back to the man reclining beneath her.  "I'm not naughty," she says with a grin as he pulls her gently forward-the better to reach her breasts, which he begins to knead gently between his palms-"Just fun-loving."  

Both men snort and she gasps the moment Rogers lips lock around one of her nipples.  He sucks it, like she sucked his cock mere moments before and as Barnes fingers begin to stroke her flushed and sensitive skin, she groans.

The moment Barnes' fingers stroke her clit, press against her heated center, she comes undone, her body spreading for the men touching and teasing her.  

Her hips begin to undulate over Rogers' and as Barnes' fingers rub faster and her body begins to rock into his hand, he presses his erection firmly into her trembling core.  

Both cry out, the moment his hips ease into hers and as she presses her ass tightly into him-anything to increase the sensation of his skin rubbing against hers-she sobs his name.

"James, please."  

Rogers' eyes lock on hers as Barnes draws his cock slowly from her trembling folds and his lips curl in a gentle but knowing smile the moment his fingers replace his partners on her clit and begin to rub.

Every nerve in her body begins to sing in that moment and as Barnes' hips snap and her body rocks into Rogers' touch, she begins to understand.

Understand just what it feels like to be possessed by gods. 

"Jesus," she gasps as her body begins to pulse against their fingers and around Barnes cock thrusting deep within her core.  

_Fuck yes._

She comes, with Rogers' fingers on her clit, his lips on her breasts and Barnes' tattooed body arched over hers, and the only thing keeping her from screaming is the laugh that builds deep within her chest and bursts from her lips, just as Barnes' hips snap against her ass one last time.

 _"Fuck yes,"_ she gasps, with laughter still bubbling from her throat and sweat dripping down her spine.  "Jesus boys.  That-that was..."

She can't finish.

Good thing they both can.

"Amazing," they say as one and she chokes on more laughter as her eyes roll back into her skull and her body goes limp in their arms.  

Amazing in-the fuck-deed.  

**

"We should try that again."  

Rogers', in the process of chewing a forkful of steaming pancakes, freezes and raises his eyes to hers.  

"What?!" he sputters as she grins and reclines languorously against the back of her booth.  Her green eyes sparkle as Barnes glances at her from under the tangled fringe of his bangs.  His own pile of pancakes is nearly gone and he grins before reaching his fork across the table for his.

She smacks his hand away with a hiss and points her fork at Rogers. 

"Think of it this way Rogers," she says as she stabs some pancakes onto the tines of the fork and shoves the bite into her mouth.  

"We're taking Lit-431, next semester."  She grins and winks in their direction as she slides free of the booth.  "We're going to be seeing much more of each other."  

Their heads move as one as they track her progress through the diner and she grins at the memory of the first time she saw them.  

Of the way their bodies gravitated around the other's.

And for the first time she realizes...

Realizes what it's like to have partners who understand her just as well as they understand each other. 

She raises her face to the soft dawn light surrounding her and begins to laugh.

"Fuck," she breathes as every muscle in her body sings with the aftershocks of the most satisfying pleasure she's ever experienced.  

_Fuck._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this was super late in coming (pun so intended-heh heh) and for that I am nothing but sorry. 
> 
> It's not the best ending I'd hoped for but I'm awful at endings so I guess I'll deal with it. 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for the love you all have expressed for this story. It amazes me and amuses me in equal measure and I am forever grateful. 
> 
> So, thanks for reading and I'll see you weirdos around.
> 
> -M


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